


the little prince of impossible things

by dinosuns



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Belonging, Childhood Memories, Christmas Fluff, Domestic Boyfriends, Established Relationship, Falling In Love, First Christmas, Future Fic, Growth, Home, Intimacy, Living Together, M/M, Post-War, Presents, Reminiscing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2018-12-28
Packaged: 2019-09-29 11:10:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17202395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dinosuns/pseuds/dinosuns
Summary: To believe in something, anything. Lotor can understand that, the desperate yearning.To build resolve and forge a pathway forward. That kind of unwavering conviction is so unmistakably Keith.“I see. And what is it you believe in now?”Their eyes meet across the room bathed in firelight. The orange glow makes the sparks dance a little fiercer and firmer in Keith’s gaze. Reaching across the space, Keith clasps Lotor’s hand and squeezes.After the war, Lotor and Keith spend their first Christmas together on earth.





	the little prince of impossible things

**Author's Note:**

> for the keitor secret santa exchange!! for goghbach!

Well read and well versed in over hundreds of cultures across the universe, it’s not often that Lotor comes across a word he doesn’t understand or is unfamiliar with. Hardly surprising considering the aftermath of the Galra Empire’s reign, alongside the coalitions presence, had integrated both Galra and Altean customs into a vast number of planets. Not to mention the remnants of a past the universe is healing from, cannot be so easily revised.

Lotor had presented his forecasting in the first peace summit following Voltron’s final battle. Dismantling the Galra Empire is not as straightforward as one would assume, and perhaps parts of it should not be so carelessly cast aside. Trade negotiations, currency and territory are but a few of countless things that have destabilised since the collapse of power. But their complex structures worked, thrived even. To say as much, however, is as close to treason Lotor could get. In his circumstances, he would rather forgo further scrutiny or risk sanctions.

Allura is a revered diplomat. As head of the coalition, she is a person he greatly respects and continues to admire. After all, she and Keith insisted to rescue him from the quintessence field before it consumed him. But despite that, her naivety and stubborn refusal to acknowledge the influence of the Galra have admittedly caused frustrations for Lotor amongst the coalition meetings he often is called to attend nowadays.

Being there, contributing to the future of the universe without a position of authority, it’s one way to atone. To make peace with himself and with complete strangers. At least that is the reason according to those who know nothing about him besides his shortcomings and grave miscalculations.

For Lotor, he can see no greater punishment than being forced to observe the coalition’s problems escalate and rarely have an opportunity to dissolve them. He doesn’t understand the purpose of it, prolonging conflicts due to wounded pride and upholding reputations.

And it is here, on earth, that Lotor finds he understands less and less. In fact, in the recent months of the winter season on Earth, Lotor is more out of his depth than perhaps he has ever been before.

_Christmas._

This word is one that has so many meanings. It’s bigger than it should be, for a two-syllable word with a rather average character. Somehow, something about this word fills people with great emotion. Sorrow or joy, it is amplified and softened by this strange word and all its connected traditions.

The mass plundering of forests, chopping down youthful trees so that they may dress a room. Not that there are any trees in the desert, but Lotor has seen the occurrence on TV and heard the events on the radio. Beneath the decorated corpses of the forest, people place gifts. Small surprises for each other.

Certain things hanging from a doorway offer peace and prosperity, and a bundle of leaves from the ceiling demand a kiss. Apparently, humans have quite an obsession with decomposed foliage and forestry. Even if the foliage is made from other materials, which is quite common according to the shops he and Keith have visited. That leads Lotor to one conclusion: the most important thing is the impression.

It doesn’t matter if the foliage is real or not, the emotive qualities and symbolism is preserved.

In any case, when one is faced with such curiosities, researching the answers is the most satisfying solution. Which is where Lotor has honed his focus for the past week. The library in the nearest town had quite a selection of informative materials to choose from. Most generously, they allowed Lotor to take all of them home.

Home. 

Such a thing Lotor never thought was truly on his own horizon. For very few times in his life, Lotor had glimpsed the true unrefined essence of peace and comfort a home supposedly brings. And the universe had proven the force of its destructive power to him, with prominence one does not so easily forget. Home had never been a goal, or an ambition. It hadn’t even been something to lose. Because it had simply never been tangible.

Instead, home had remained a faraway and alien concept that lacked emotional contentment and any semblance of its presumed connotations. Unlike the gnawing pinch between his bones that sometimes bruised, the driving swell of success bursting behind his eyes, home had no lingering presence. That’s not to say the absence of home didn’t sit heavy in his chest and press down hard. Because it did, more than he can stand to articulate.

Now, however, the story has transformed. At the centre of that, is one remarkable individual. In a refurbished desert shack on the outskirts of the Garrison’s main headquarters, Lotor has found a place he can begin to belong to. If he considers it enough, looks at the eyes that gaze so fondly in his direction, then he even comes to believe it.  

It should be uninspiring to spend the rest of his days shackled to a planet that he barely knows, dull - but it's not. Not with a companion so interesting and engaging by his side. These four walls offer a little more security, shelter from a storm that chases down only him. It’s no coincidence that the coalition insisted Lotor’s quarters are close to the Garrison perimeter.

Close enough to be watched by prying eyes of sceptics and monitored by disillusioned soldiers, even if done so indirectly.

To have others so openly cautious, no longer leaves a bitter taste on his tongue. No, that is a price Lotor finds himself willing to pay given the unexpected benefits of the overall arrangement.  

There is one person that he trusts here without reserve. And there is even someone who trusts him in turn. To have just one person fit that description, is astounding. For that person to be Keith, a paladin of Voltron, pilot of the black lion and esteemed blade of Marmora agent, is truly something that evades any narrative Lotor predicted for his future.

Stifled laughter draws his attention from the doorway. Lotor quirks an eyebrow, setting the book about Christmas traditions down on the table. Shrugging the jacket off his shoulders, Keith bites down on his lip. His eyes drag across the table, flicking to Lotor’s face fleetingly. He can’t hold his gaze - a futile attempt at hiding the amusement bubbling beneath his skin. That’s certainly curious, further proof the cause of is something Keith may be inclined to keep to himself.

“Sorry.” He doesn’t seem apologetic, a peal of something too close to giddy uncharacteristic giggles slipping out his mouth. “It’s just - you reminded me of something I haven’t thought about for… well. Years.”

A memory, one before the war. That piques Lotor’s interest. It’s not often they delve into these sorts of moments. Of all subjects, Keith is Lotor’s most favoured field of study. Learning more about him is not something Lotor will turn away from.

“What might that be?”

Shuffling into the room, Kosmo following close behind, Keith takes a seat across the table. His eyes trial over the Christmas books once more. The amusement from before has not withered in the slightest.

“The nightmare before Christmas.”

Lotor blinks. He still has not quite grasped the concept of this ‘Christmas’, but nightmares are universal. Amongst that, they are not particularly well liked. Taking personal offence at this stage could be presumptuous. That’s not to say Lotor isn’t a little deflated. Kosmo nudges into his hand, as if sensing the imperceptible sag of his shoulders.

“That’s awfully rude.”

“ _No!”_ Keith barks out a laugh, eyes widening in realisation. The sunlight trickling in from the windows enhances the shadows cast across his face by prominent cheekbones and a sharp jawline. Heavens, he’s ethereal.

“Not like that. I mean...“ gesturing to the piles of books around them, Keith smiles. “All this stuff you’ve collected about Christmas. It’s just like Jack.”

Lotor narrows his eyes at that. He has not heard Keith speak of such a person in all their time together. Nobody in the coalition bares that name, either.

“And who is this ‘ _Jack’_?”

He is not jealous. It’s a simple enquiry.

“A skeleton.”

Keith’s expression becomes wistful, of all things. It makes absolutely no sense. Being compared to a nightmare is one thing, but a skeleton is definitely unfavourable. Even if Keith does seem rather attached to it. Fond, of all things. A frown curls on the corners of Lotor’s mouth.

“Have I upset you in some way? It seems the only logical explanation for why you are likening me to a corpse.”  

Mirth twinkles in Keith’s eyes. Followed by a smirk that hangs on the corner of his mouth, the kind that is far too clever and bold. Instead of voicing whatever witty response tickles his throat, Keith coughs.  

“It’s uh, actually from a movie. Me and my Pop watched it one time at Christmas. It was fun.” Eyes cast down, he continues. “He used to pretend to do the voices and stuff.”

There’s unmistakable reverence in that voice. When Lotor is daring in his thoughts, he is sure the same loving tone is directed at himself. But this isn’t about him. Standing up from his seat, Lotor crouches besides the seat Keith has sunken into. Their eyes meet, slow and tentative. A weak smile graces Keith’s lips, so very different to the animated twists and turns that mouth is attuned to making. This is stagnant, almost. Pained.

Thumb stroking across the nape of Keith’s neck, Lotor draws him closer.

“You miss him,” he whispers into soft curls of hair.

It’s less of a question, affirmed by a firm kiss to Keith’s forehead. The sound that escapes Keith’s lips confirms everything. This is a delicate subject, one Lotor knows he ought to tread carefully around. Hands slide to cradle Keith’s face, smoothing over the scar. Keith doesn’t flinch or wince. If anything, he leans into the touch.

Forehead pushed against Lotor’s, Keith lifts his fingers to graze over the edge of a pursed mouth. The skin is rough where it ought to be soft, a thin line spliced open by a particularly nasty hit Lotor had been unable to block. The resulting scar is but a fraction of the one that is etched into Keith’s cheek.

“Sorry.”

Lotor pulls back, giving Keith a questioning look. As much as he chases those eyes, it is to no avail. An apology is not what Keith’s gentle caress suggested.

“Whatever for?”

“I know it’s difficult. Thinking about family.”

Lips dancing over Keith’s palm, Lotor parts with a smile. He is ever the kind and considerate, even in the towering shadows of dead men. A true paladin, with most honourable moral code Lotor has seen in this age. Knights of Camelot, a legend Lotor has become acquainted with on earth, would have everything to learn from Keith.

Something old and sacred lives in his spirit, nestles deep in his heart. Lotor is privileged to witness it.

A tight squeeze of his hand tugs him back into Keith’s orbit. The former paladin sits there expectant, yet still quiet. To see him so momentarily unsure is all the encouragement Lotor needs to voice what often goes unspoken.

“Perhaps it was once, though now it’s different.” 

Eyebrows scrunched together, Keith pouts. He leans forward on the seat, sharp eyes searching Lotor’s face for subtle clues. “Different how?”

“You are also my family, and to think of you is never difficult.”

Keith surges forwards, face flushed and eyes wide. Their lips don’t meet or meld together. There is no kiss, nothing Lotor expected. Gazing down in bewilderment, he watches Keith’s head ram into his side. Despite the absurd gesture, it’s swathed in fierce affection.

“Stop that,” Keith groans into his shoulder. “It’s embarrassing.”

“I am not the one who took romantic interest in a skeleton in their earlier years. It sounds less of a nightmare to me...”

Eyes snap up, head lifting from Lotor’s chest. The words have an immediate effect on Keith. A pointed scowl doesn’t quite settle on his face, lips caught in a chasm between a smirk and a smile. He prods Lotor with a finger, for good measure and to presumably emphasise his irritation. The jab had no heat, merely meant to rouse Keith closer. He seems to have succeeded.

“How did you -?” Keith sits up, spluttering over his words in a way that spreads endless warmth over Lotor’s skin. Realisation settles into Keith’s eyes. “I mean, that’s not what I…”

With a huff, he stands.

“You’re impossible.”

It’s all for show. Keith may be petty at times, but Lotor has come to see there is not an unkind or cruel bone in his body. The more their world has unfurled into a shared experience, the more Keith reveals the playful notes of his character so often overlooked or missed. Lotor sinks into the empty seat, eyes resting on the stack of books. If anything is impossible, it’s understanding this tradition humans fixate on before their year is over. Or, having the opportunity to sit in this very room with Keith. To be here, with him. 

“Things deemed impossible are perhaps some of the greatest triumphs and most spectacular wonders of the universe. So thank you, Keith.”

He means it. Beneath the scathing sarcasm, he really does.Impossible things are not so uncommon in his life, not since Keith cleaved his way through the quintessence field and dragged Lotor out. Keith tosses one of the Christmas books into his lap in response. Whether he catches the hidden meaning, it's unclear. 

Lotor chuckles behind the pages, stealing glances at Keith with as much discretion as he can muster.   

* * *

 

The books are both helpful and unhelpful. Some parts are illustrated in bright vibrant colours that make it seem otherworldly. That defeats the point, in truth. At the very least, it gives unrealistic expectations for the celebration. Some other parts of Christmas are explained in detail, but even those parts leave Lotor with more questions than answers.

Perhaps the biggest mystery of all is the man in red that children spend years of their life writing to and adoring with all their hearts. This man in red is far more ominous than Lotor thinks these books give him credit for. He also has to be fabricated, for it’s unlikely one person can memorise every single child’s wishes and grant them, then deliver them all in one night. Santa Claus, is the name this man in red goes by.

“You believed in this man in red?” The incredulous tone of his voice is inescapable.

Keith is no fool. His instincts are second to none, as are his judgements on the battlefield. But such a tale is highly absurd and incredibly unrealistic. Even as a child, Lotor doubts he would have fallen prey to such deception. If anything, the man in red proves to be a potential threat. Not announcing his presence in a stranger’s home is usually considered to be trespassing.

“Cut me some slack. I was just a kid,” Keith grins, sheepish and unashamed of the admission. “And besides, sometimes…” His eyes drift off, trailing along the floor. Lotor has come to understand what that means. Whatever Keith is grappling with articulating, it’s troublesome enough to bring him to a halt.

“Sometimes people need that kind of stuff. I thought I didn’t for a long time but- guess I was wrong.”

To believe in something, _anything_. Lotor can understand that, the desperate yearning.To build resolve and forge a pathway forward. That kind of unwavering conviction is so unmistakably Keith.

“I see. And what is it you believe in now?”

Their eyes meet across the room bathed in firelight. The orange glow makes the sparks dance a little fiercer and firmer in Keith’s gaze. Reaching across the space, Keith clasps Lotor’s hand and squeezes. There’s no way to misinterpret this gesture. Lotor glances down, and takes quite possibly the biggest leap of his entire life. Each and every time, it feels this way. A wonderful chance blossoming, one that could slip from his grasp at any moment. Slowly, he laces their fingers together. Keith looks pleased by the reciprocation, a shaky smile nestling on his lips.

“Does that answer your question?” he says, voice low and hushed.

It crackles against Lotor’s skin, making the most staggering array of sensations ripple up his spine. Both delightful and deadly. That’s the curse of love, he supposes. Forgiveness isn’t woven into every fibre of Keith’s being, it’s forged into the promise of tomorrow. His calloused hands swipe so tenderly across Lotor’s, as if he is touching something sacred. The softening of those large enchanting eyes merely enhances that. Keith looks upon him with such reverence. He wills Lotor not just to endure and survive, but to live.

“I’ve killed, Keith.”

The words are by no means absent of purpose, but Lotor steels to keep them careful and collected. There’s enough ambiguity set against a jarring truth that Keith can decide which side to pander to. But of course, there is a grave mistake in assuming. Keith looks up from the box he’s crouched beside, and immediately Lotor glimpses fire. He won’t pander to anything, not even this. Despite this, he doesn’t let go.  

“All of us have a headcount. Doesn’t mean we’re cold-blooded.”  

There’s something sharp in his eyes, uncompromising. And it’s even more evident from the crease in his eyebrows, the hard bite between the words, that Keith refuses to dip into the darkness that creeps too close. For both their sakes. Despite Lotor possessing a silver tongue that spins elegantly garnished words, there is little room to manoeuvre here. Not that Lotor is particularly inclined to do so. Those battles that are chosen, fabricated by the starved fear and anguish residing within, are the hardest to finish.

Lotor is all too aware from experience that they are also nearly impossible to win. Sometimes, there is no fight. Keith has given him an insight to how very powerful that revelation can be. And of all things, he is here. It’s as illogical as it is impossible. The swell of affection that threatens to lure Lotor further offshore stirs and churns in his gut. It’s not unpleasant, in truth.

“Hm. I suppose there is truth in that,” a twitch he’s unable to fathom tugs his lips upwards.

There’s turbulence in the gesture, attributed to the nerves coiling around him. A deflection with humour ought to do the trick to bide time to regather himself. Hands steepled into a spire, Lotor presses his thumbs into his chin. This may be a typical pose of a cunning mastermind, according to many earth television programmes, but the sophistication of such a pose is hideously underused and taken for granted.

“Although, technically speaking, the Galra as a race are in fact composed more of what I suppose can be classified by your earth terms as cold-blooded…”

“Fascinating,” Keith drawls, sounding not in the slightest interested by the remark. That is hardly a surprise, considering Lotor played such a foul hand of evasion from their serious conversation.

“Should you wish to hear more, you need to upgrade your subscription to the interplanetary science channel.”

A thoughtful hum escapes Keith’s lips at the facetious suggestion. For show, he taps his chin.

“Maybe I will. I mean, that kind of information I’d hate to miss. It’s the kind of thing I want around everyday.”

Keith’s eyes flick up slow. It’s unfair how Lotor grows more and more incapable of averting his gaze. Especially now he can hear all the beautiful things Keith breathes into the spaces between each word he crafts. Perhaps this is what is referred to as ‘the magic of Christmas’, to be so moved by the devotion of another person. To want to translate that into some kind of gesture.

A gift.  

* * *

The next day, Lotor exchanges one of his _exquisite life-like renderings_ at a market in the local town for something of far greater worth.

It takes a humiliating number of attempts to wrap; Kosmo is his only living witness.  

* * *

With trembling hands, Lotor reaches for the parcel beneath their bed. As fingers graze the paper, he falters. Keith’s gaze flickers up to him, alert as always. Despite the smoothness of the paper, it’s sharp enough to flinch away from. Lotor purses his lips, trailing a thumb across the ribbon.

Unpleasant electricity courses through his veins. And something akin to crushing uncertainty plagues every fibre of his being. It had taken multiple attempts to get the wrapping right - yet alone to find paper to match the gift. Though destroying the surprise of what resides inside the box is apparently not very becoming for the season celebrations.

Giving on Christmas is supposed to be exciting, so he’s been led to believe from all the movies and books in his research. That may well be true, if people enjoyed the nauseating sensation that ripples through bruised spines and presses too hard into lungs that barely retain air. To be bested by something so trivial and small, would be insulting. Whether it’s misplaced or not, Lotor struggles to stifle the frustrating building between his bones. A raw heat simmering and stewing.

“Keith, do excuse me a moment.”

Leaning over the edge of the bed, Lotor confronts the issue at hand. It’s no different to opponents he has fought before. He fixes the box with a glare. His most practiced and most intimidating one, in fact. The ribbon may be curled beautifully, but it’s still ugly and cruel to its core for making him feel so uncomfortable in his own skin. If he really wanted to, he could claw the paper into shreds with a mere slip of his fingertips. This box is at his mercy. It has no control over him whatsoever. None.

“You’re at my mercy, fiend. Don’t pretend you’ve no idea who I am, for I-”

A dark mop of hair and large curious bright eyes poke out from the bedframe. Even upside down and dishevelled, Keith is an ethereal presence spun in fire.

“What’re you doing down there?”

Lotor lifts the box out of sight.

“Nothing.”

Of course that merits the judgemental eyebrow raise. Or dip, should one wish to be pedantic as they are currently conversing upside down. Though it’s not as if this situation isn’t already completely backwards. Eyes narrowed, Keith’s lips twitch.

“Who you talking to?”

“Myself.”

The lack of eloquence and tendency for monosyllabic answers is betraying Lotor as opposed to diffusing the situation. Keith leans down further than he probably should, arms folded over his chest. It’s absurd how endearing it is.

“Under the bed?”

Lotor does not huff indignantly. It’s simply more difficult to keep breaths steady and regular whilst retaining this position. With a slow blink, the words drag out.

“I’ve discovered it to be a great place for one to repose.”

Keith hums, sounding both thoughtful and amused at once. The conviction of Lotor’s words seem to be nonexistent which is most unfortunate. That is a tragedy, considering everything that he holds dear to his life hinges on how this very moment plays out. Something too raw and vulnerable must splay across his face, perhaps the panic has bled from his eyes, for the look Keith sends his way is far too urgent.

In moments, he’s gone. The bed rustles above Lotor. There’s warmth on his back, gentle hands steering him back on course. Just one touch, one person tugging him to shore. Lotor doesn’t realise he’s near breathless, suffocated by the tightness in his chest, until Keith coaxes him onto his back.

He speaks for him as much as he speaks to Lotor. And Lotor listens, follows the firm lines of that raspy voice. Despite the strain, the cracks caused by concern, Keith keeps himself an anchor. He does so until the tension in Lotor’s shoulders unwinds. It’s so kind. So loving and in a way that is so very unconditional.

The bed is deep enough to sink in, but to sink is not so overwhelming anymore.

“Hey…” thumb mapping out Lotor’s jawline, Keith frowns. His voice is hushed. “You with me?”

_Oh, Keith._

Affection swelling within him, Lotor presses the box into Keith’s chest. It sits between them, a little awkward. Realisation pours into Keith, eyes wide. Rather than address the fact Lotor has clearly gone against their agreement, he stares. Quiet. Lotor waits, less patient than he supposes he ought to be. The sigh that leaves Keith’s lips is resigned, but immeasurably fond. Lotor knows this because he catches the ghost of a smile.

Then, in one hasty motion, Keith reaches into the drawer beside him.

A parcel finds itself sprawled in Lotor’s lap. The wrapping is subpar, a little crumpled and messy, but the intention behind it is staggering. There’s devotion here, tucked into every folded corner. Keith parts with a sheepish grin.

“Guess we both couldn’t help ourselves, huh.”

Their eyes meet. And for reasons Lotor cannot fathom, Keith looks timid of all things. A silent question hovers on his lips. Guiding Keith’s hands to the parcel, Lotor offers his encouragement. The rustling of paper gives way to the gift. Eyes wide, Keith stares down at the DVD case. He turns it over in his hands, a blinding smile illuminates his face. Lotor doesn’t think he’s seen those eyes glisten so bright.

It’s a good thing that Keith has an affinity for collecting outdated technology. The DVD slots into the machine, and it begins to play. It’s macabre yet charming. Such a mix of things should not be possible, but Lotor finds himself enjoying it immensely. Keith hums along to some of the songs, eyes not leaving the screen. A laugh escapes Lotor’s lips as he finally gathers the context to those words Keith teased him with some weeks ago.

And when it’s done, a weight presses against Lotor. It’s soon followed by a quiet sound that breaks into his shoulder. There’s a noise Keith will never admit to making, and one Lotor will only acknowledge by carding a hand through the tousled overgrown hair that frames Keith’s face. In the hush, Keith’s voice ghosts between them.

“Thanks, Lotor. That... _really_ meant a lot to me." The rasp is more prevalent than usual, which says more than it should. "This is the closest I’ve felt to him in a long time.”

It is not often that Lotor grapples with what to say. But in this monumental moment, he struggles to make a coherent sentence. _He would be proud of you,_ is what he wants to convey. But perhaps that would be too much. With a playful nudge to the arm, Keith nods towards the parcel. His hair shields his face from view. Lotor blinks back his confusion.

“Heh, your turn now.”

Breath hitched, Lotor peels the wrapping back. Beneath the paper sits a small box. His hands are more unsteady than he could ever care to admit as he opens it. What greets him is an impossible sight. It’s a rock, small and jagged. The surface is weathered, hardened by the harsh years it has endured travelling through the cosmos. But even after all this time, Lotor doesn’t think he could ever forget a single fragment of where this rock came from. It haunts him in the night, it’s seared onto his heart and carved into his bones.

With an urgency that borders frantic, Lotor holds the rock to his chest. It burns. It hurts. Though the sheer gratitude consuming him outweighs the throbbing in his head. All the anguish is washed with a wild euphoria. Somehow, despite the thousands of years that have come and gone, a part of Xaiya lives on.

“Keith, where did you get this? How did you acquire it? How could you _possibly_ -?”

It’s not the most eloquent Lotor has been in his life, his voice is splintered by something frenzied, but he’s overwhelmed and overcome by this. Moisture builds in his eyes, it stings when he tries to blink it away. Offering a poignant smile, Keith unfurls Lotor’s fist. He leans down to kiss the imprints of the rock on his skin.  

“On my last blade mission, we visited a planet called Rehkai. I met someone there who told me about the Deadstone Asteroid belt.”

He’s heard of this elusive place, but never had any reason to visit. It is one of the most extensive asteroid belts in the entire universe, stretching further than thought possible. And the legends passed down through many generations claim that it carries the pieces of thousands of different planets. Many travel to the outskirts to leave pieces of rock, throw them into the swirling debris to join the millions upon millions of rock shooting through space. Xaiya had only been a few vargas from it. Close enough perhaps for some of its ruins to get swept in.

“That is one of the most dangerous places in the entire universe,” Lotor breathes, fingers tracing over the rock. 

“Yeah, well...it wasn’t easy but- I found what I was looking for.”

Eyes gleaming, Keith’s lips twitch. Here sits the greatest pilot of his generation, true competition for Lotor’s own skills. The humblest and bravest man he knows. But above all that is so much more. Lotor surges forwards, pressing a chaste yet fierce kiss against Keith’s mouth. This is something he will never forsake, will always treasure.

Here sits the man Lotor has fallen so irrevocably in love with.

_“As have I.”_


End file.
